


Good Company

by Phoenix_of_Athena



Series: Historical Omens (all of my pre-canon GO fics in one place) [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (it's very hot outside, Ancient Greece, And Some Really Awful Weather, Breakfast, Canon - Book, Developing Relationship, Early Mornings, Enemies to Friends, Falling In Love, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, Going to the Theatre, Loneliness, One Shot, Other, Pre-Arrangement (Good Omens), Pre-Canon, and we could all use some a/c), historical setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-28 22:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20785922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_of_Athena/pseuds/Phoenix_of_Athena
Summary: "Crowley watches Aziraphale greet the people who go by, slave and child and tradesman alike. She watches the sunlight catch in his curls, turning them nearly white in the early light, and she sees the kindness in his smile as he reaches out to catch a basket nearly dropped by a young woman hurrying past. She thinks again of what she’d heard last night.Aziraphale is thought highly of, yes, but he's also considered humble here in the city where nearly everyone else keeps slaves. He lives alone. He is aloof, and kind, and…untouchable to most. He keeps his distance despite his good will. And yet here Crowley is, holding onto him: a demon walking arm-in-arm with an angel through the city streets at dawn."Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale expect to run into each other in Athens. Crowley has been traveling, changing things up to keep it exciting; he’d been bored in Rome, and in Alexandria too, and thenshe’dbeen bored in Sparta, and she’d honestly expected to be bored here as well. Aziraphale on the other hand has settled down; he’s fond of the art, culture, the food; he's started collecting scrolls. The only thing he finds lacking, really, is good company.





	Good Company

**Author's Note:**

> Uhh, this started out as a chapter for "and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart," but it didn't stay that way for long. This is a fic that got away from me, and turned into a way of, sort of, settling into how I write the characters.

It is _sweltering_ outside. Beyond the shade, the hard-packed dirt road practically glows with heat, and the slight, faltering breeze in the air is more like standing next to an oven than any kind of relief.

Aziraphale feels rather bad for the humans who have to face the brunt of the weather; as an angel, the effect of the temperature is…_minimal_ to him. Oh, he can _feel_ it, and if he allows it his corporation will react naturally to the weather, but he isn’t bothered by it in the same way. Still, the feel of the miraculously cold water jug in his hand is lovely, and he presses the cool ceramic against the flushed skin of his cheek as he idly fans himself with one hand. Sipping from the jug, he watches sluggish, sweaty people trundle by towards the market as he sits in the shade of the little roadside restaurant. 

In times like these, Aziraphale sometimes misses life by the seashore or in the countryside: the uninterrupted breezes, the peaceful quiet, and cool streams or lapping waves to dip his feet in.

As he watches, a small, crying child is tugged along by his mother’s hand, and Aziraphale sighs. He tips his head back against the warm stone wall.

Nearby, he can hear the faint sound of music over the chatter of people in the marketplace. It’s a pleasant enough sound that, combined with the heat, he feels relaxed in a loose, languid sort of way. Athens may be crowded, but isn’t all that bad, really. He’s fond of the art; the culture; the restaurants. And he enjoys being surrounded by all manner of people, really, even when at times he finds them tiresome. They give life the sort of flavor that it lacks when he’s alone.

Another group of people passes by as he relaxes in the shade. Most of them are men whom Aziraphale recognizes from the assemblies, but among them are two women, and Aziraphale finds himself watching curiously as they go by. Of the men, he knows best Agathon and Markos, and Paramonos who sells wine. Neither of the women he recognizes, although both are well dressed—and they must be uncomfortably warm beneath their layers. One of them is fair haired, with straight blonde locks tucked up elaborately. The other is darker, with long, curling tresses. There’s something strikingly familiar about the way she moves, and Aziraphale sits up. 

_Surely not,_ he thinks, but he watches how the brunette turns the men’s ears. He observes the sway of her walk, her dark cotton chiton, the curve of her cheek as she turns her face in the sun—and it _is._

Aziraphale springs to his feet; all at once he isn’t tired anymore.

“Good afternoon!” he exclaims, bustling over, and the group turns.

“Hello, Mr. Aziraphale!” says Markos, and behind him, _Crowley_ starts in surprise.

“Aziraphale?” the demon says.

“Yes, hello. It’s been some time, hasn’t it?” says Aziraphale, and he’s beaming. He doesn’t quite know why he’s smiling so broadly, but he can’t help himself; it’s been at least four decades since he’s seen Crowley.

“It…has,” Crowley says. She seems uncomfortable, and Aziraphale's smile slips.

“You two know each other?” says Paramonos. “Crowley told us she was new to Athens.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange a look.

“Er, yes,” says Aziraphale, “We met...elsewhere. Outside of the city.”

“It was in Sparta,” Crowley interjects, “Remember? It couldn’t have been anywhere else, of course. Because that’s where I’m from. Er.”

“Oh, yes,” says Aziraphale. There is a beat of silence.

“Well, then you certainly must join us!” Markos says to the angel. “I’m sure a friendly face would be a comfort to the lady. Tell us, tell us: how did you meet?”

The group begins to walk again, making their way towards the agora, and Crowley and Aziraphale exchange slightly frantic, wordless glances behind the others.

“Aziraphale was—a friend of my family’s?” says Crowley, and it comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.

Aziraphale flounders.

“Right,” he says, “they, um. They sold me some scrolls of poetry.”

The men laugh.

“That’s Aziraphale for you,” Agathon teases good-naturedly. “I couldn’t really see him leaving the city for anything else.”

“Oh?” says Crowley, “You’ve settled down_,_ then, have you, angel? I see you’ve made friends; you’ve made yourself _comfortable_.”

“Er,” says Aziraphale.

“As opposed to what?” asks Markos, “Did Aziraphale used to be _wild?”_

Crowley smiles slowly, and Aziraphale attempts to motion her to _stop_ without being seen by the others.

“Oh, yes,” she says, “He was a complete rapscallion when he was younger; quite the _rule breaker,_ you could say_._ Shame that didn’t last, really. He used to be _fun._”

Aziraphale flushes.

“Crowley,” he says, lowly, and Crowley _winks_ at him. The audacity!

“Crowley,” he says again, tightly, “May I have a word with you, in private? Do pardon me, gentlemen, but it’s been some time since we’ve spoken….”

The men wave them off, and Aziraphale grasps Crowley’s arm, leading them away out of the crowd and onto a side street where they stand in the relative coolness of the shade and stare at each other.

_“What was that about?”_ Aziraphale hisses, face flushed with indignation, “Are you _trying_ to stir up trouble—oh, of course you are! Why am I _even asking!?_ Just tell me, Crowley, what are you doing here?”

Crowley plants a hand on her hip.

“I’m stirring up trouble,” she says snidely, and Aziraphale huffs.

“You…” he says. 

He takes a breath, and frowns.

“You look well,” he says.

“I am well,” says Crowley, raising an eyebrow, “and you?”

“I’m…also well,” he says, “Just tell me. What unscrupulous task has _your_ side put you up to this time?”

Crowley sighs.

“Honestly?” she says, “Nothing. It’s not like they give me much direction; you know that. I’m here because I got tired of hanging about in Rome, and I heard Athens has this _democracy_ thing going, and I thought, _that’s interesting,_ why don’t I go and check that out? Not like I’ve got anything better to do.” 

She brushes a dark curl of hair away from her face, and Aziraphale notices for the first time a gold bangle on her wrist in the shape of an ouroboros. He shouldn’t be surprised.

“So, you’re only here out of _pure curiosity?_” he says sarcastically, “No other reason at all, hm?”

“Yep,” says Crowley, popping the “p.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Aziraphale says.

“Obviously,” says Crowley, “But honestly! I’m not here to _start_ anything. If I wanted trouble, I’d go somewhere else; corrupt some powerful official, or something. But Athens isn’t that easy, is it? The power’s more equal; it’s harder to corrupt. Altogether too much work, if you ask me.”

And Aziraphale wants to believe her. He does. Which…is an issue in and of itself, and one to be contemplated and agonized over at a later date—but. Crowley is still a _demon, _and more importantly, she’s still _Crowley._ Crowley always has something clever up his—or, presently, her—sleeve. And yet…it can’t really hurt to relax, a bit. Crowley will do what she will, whether Aziraphale is here or not, and, honestly, it’s been so long since they’ve seen each other. It’d be a shame to waste it all with petty arguments.

“Fine,” says Aziraphale.

“Fine?” says Crowley, incredulously.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, “Fine. Let’s not carry on with useless prattle. If it really _is_ your first time in Athens, then there are so many more interesting things we could be doing.” 

He casts a look back into the agora, and spies their group of acquaintances standing in the shade of a building. Every once in a while, they cast glances in Aziraphale and Crowley’s direction.

“Oh?” says Crowley, and suddenly she’s leaning forward into Aziraphale’s space, catching his arm.

“What _kind _of interesting things?”

Aziraphale blinks at her.

“Well,” he says, "there are several places where the food is quite nice, and I happen to know the best seat to watch the plays from, in the amphitheatre. And if you want wine, or a good scroll to read, I’m not in short supply.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, “that…sounds nice. I may have to take you up on that.”

Aziraphale grins.

“Well,” he says, “The others are waiting for us, so why don’t we rejoin them? We can show you around the city, and then if you’d like, you could join me for a performance this evening? Hopefully the weather will cool down; it’s rather dreadful.”

“It really is,” Crowley agrees, and they head back into the agora.

Crowley hadn’t been expecting to run into Aziraphale in Athens, honestly. He’d been _bored_ in Rome, and he’d been bored in Alexandria, and then _she’d _been bored in Sparta, and she’d honestly expected to be bored here, too. 

And Athens had been miserable, right from the start. 

It’s _achingly_ hot today: that kind of heat that makes Crowley want to just curl up in the shade and sleep for a week. It’s hot, and she’d had to ride a horse to get here—she _hates_ horses—and then she’d immediately gotten lost after entering the city. And it’s a different sort of city from Sparta, for sure. Crowley had almost forgotten how women are treated in most of the world, living there. But—Athens isn’t _too_ bad, and Crowley is just the right sort of slippery to get along regardless, and it hadn’t taken all too long to end up with an escort.

And then Aziraphale had shown up.

The angel had shown up out of nowhere, and suddenly it was like the world had _energy _in it again, and Crowley couldn’t help but get caught up in it. Aziraphale is so _easy _to get a rise out of, although she’s careful never to push too far—so far only she’s only _edged_ the line of aggravation, lest the angel decide to get serious and chase her off. He hasn’t done that yet, in the time they’ve known each other, but a part of Crowley can’t help but think that it’s only a matter of time.

And yet, the angel had gone and done the opposite, and now here they are.

The heat had seeped away somewhat as the day slowly crawled towards evening, and the stone benches of the amphitheatre are only warm to the touch rather than painfully hot. 

Aziraphale is sitting next to her with a small basket of bread and fruit in his lap, and smiling eagerly as the performers find their places below them. 

The angel looks comfortable, here, she thinks. He looks natural in his light, white robes and simple leather sandals. He looks at ease here amongst the arts, excitement sparkling in his eyes as he watches humanity perform their little stories. 

Aziraphale hands her a piece of bread. Their fingers brush; his hand is warm.

Crowley turns her gaze back to the play. It isn’t the best she’s seen, but it’s not bad, and she finds herself wishing it was longer by the time it ends. Beside her, Aziraphale is licking his fingers clean of fruit juice, and Crowley rolls her eyes.

“Do you ever get _tired_ of eating?” she asks, because lately every time she’s run into him he’s been partaking in some new delicacy that humanity has cooked up.

Aziraphale looks affronted.

“No,” he says shortly, “Do _you_ ever get tired of keeping up with the _latest fashion?_ It seems like an awful lot of effort to me.”

“Touché,” says Crowley, “But really, if you can’t appreciate humanity’s ability to _change,_ to—to innovate, what can you appreciate?”

Aziraphale hums as they join the crowd drifting towards the street.

“Good food,” he says, “good stories, good weather…good company.”

He’s not looking at Crowley.

“I suppose,” says the demon, and then they’re parting ways for the night. Aziraphale goes off to wherever he goes, and Crowley heads to a tavern. It’s time to get to _know_ this city. 

Crowley spends the next morning grumpy.

She’d once again forgotten how _annoying_ humans could be about gender, and she’d been forced to spend the entire night _consciously expecting_ no one to bother her about it. It had put a damper on the fun of the evening, really, although she’d still been able to contrive several people into conversation. 

She’d done her due diligence, then, and picked up on how things worked here: who held the most sway; who held the actual titles. She’d gotten quite a bit of gossip out of the drunken customers, and come away richer for it. And then, somehow over the course of the evening, her inquiries had gone slightly lopsided. 

It hadn’t been her intention, really, to start asking questions about Aziraphale. But it _had_ been so long since they’d seen each other, and she’d been curious about what he’d been up to. And it seemed he’d just been up to…_living._ He really had settled down here; he’d managed to set himself up in a nice house and foster exactly the right sort of connections that Crowley had been hoping to go for; he had the ear of the influential and magnanimous, and was working a subtle sort of _good_ throughout the city with its democracy and philosophy and court rulings. It was impressive, really. It reminded Crowley why she held the angel in the regard that she did.

It is also annoying, because it means that it’ll be harder to get a foothold here—and thus difficult to explain what she's doing here in Athens if anyone ever checks up on her. 

Crowley sighs, splashing tepid water over her face from a basin in the room she’d rented, and pats herself dry with a cloth. 

Studying the garments laid out in front of her, she snaps her fingers, changing them slightly from the ones of the day before: a different shade of dark blue; a different design to the brocade at the hems. She casts careful eye over the ensemble and puts it on with a thought.

Idly, she crosses the room to the window and places a hand on the sill to lean out into the dawn. A gentle breeze sweeps through her curls as she watches the early risers get ready for the day.

She wonders whether the angel is up and about yet, and decides that he probably is. Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale doesn’t sleep, as far as she knows. He’d probably spent the night reading by the light of an oil lamp in his home, pouring over whatever latest scroll he’d picked up.

He is quite the connoisseur, she’d learned last night. He spends many a day in the school or library, and is fond of sitting in on classes to take dictations. Whenever someone brings new writings into the city, Aziraphale is the first to pick them over, and he quickly disappears with his bounty and isn't seen again until they've been read. 

Aziraphale really is very well thought of here; he is obviously well-learned and clever with his words, if a bit of a recluse when not seeking food or being sought out for advice. He’d even participated in a few debates over the years, and she'd been _interested_ to hear that he’d taken the part of devil’s advocate, forcing the others to out-argue him in a masterful display of manipulation. 

Yet another example of why the angel is a worthy counterpart, she thinks, drumming her fingers on the pale brick window sill.

Shaking her head, she makes to withdraw back inside, only to stop short as her name is called up from the street. Well, speak of the devil.

“Crowley!” comes the genial voice from down by the corner, and Crowley peers down to see Aziraphale standing there with a basket of eggs in hand. 

She raises a slow hand.

“Good morning,” he calls up, and motions to the basket. “Would you care to join me for breakfast? I’ve got fresh bread at home, and cheese.”

Aziraphale is smiling again, and why is he being so _friendly?_ It was only just yesterday that he was accusing her of maliciousness—and reasonably so, of course, for she does already have an idea of how to sow some discord—but now he is inviting her on outings, and for meals in his own home.

She looks down at him for a long moment and watches him seem to falter under her stare.

“Sure,” she finally says, and he brightens again, “I’ll be right down.”

And really, isn’t that something? That she can have such an impact on the angel’s demeanor; that he’d be happy just to have her company. 

It’s flattering, honestly. She can admit that to herself, she thinks as he heads down the stairs and out into the street. It’s _nice_ to be appreciated—to be wanted, and not just for whatever chaos she can cause.

She meets him at the corner, and watches his eyes sweep over her.

“New dress?” he asks pleasantly, and offers an arm which she takes by second nature.

“Um-hn,” she says, “Yeah, I, er, miracled it up this morning. You like it?”

“Yes, of course,” the angel says, “You have impeccable taste as always, my dear.”

As they walk down the street, people emerge from their homes. Slaves are sent to the market to fetch food for midday meals, and boys are slowly led to school.

Crowley watches Aziraphale greet the people who go by, slave and child and tradesman alike. She watches the sunlight catch in his curls, turning them nearly white in the early light, and she sees the kindness in his smile as he reaches out to catch a basket nearly dropped by a young woman hurrying past. She thinks again of what she’d heard last night.

Aziraphale is thought highly of, yes, but he's also considered humble here in the city where nearly everyone else keeps slaves. He lives alone. He is aloof, and kind, and…untouchable to most. He keeps his distance despite his good will. And yet here Crowley is, holding onto him: a demon walking arm-in-arm with an angel through the city streets at dawn.

A soft breeze ruffles their hair and clothes as Aziraphale leads them around a corner, and then they’re standing at his house. 

It is small compared to some, with pale walls of stone and plaster and a russet tiled roof.

“After you,” Aziraphale says, and drops her arm to usher her inside. Crowley enters, feet bare against the mosaic tiled floor, and casts a look around.

He has a remarkable number of scrolls, of course; a small table and two stools, one of which has been pulled up to a desk against the wall that is piled with high writings. 

Aziraphale leads the way from the room to the kitchen, and she trails behind him through the small courtyard as they go, looking at the wild tangle of plants that edge the walls. Aziraphale doesn’t keep up with the garden, which is something of a surprise.

In the kitchen, the angel is deft as he prepares a simple meal of eggs and bread and cheese.

“Fetch the fruit bowl, would you, Crowley?” he asks, and Crowley jolts. She’s been watching him unblinking, leaning against the wall with half-lidded eyes.

“This one?” she asks, and Aziraphale nods.

“Yes,” he says, “Well, come along. I thought we’d eat in the yard? It’s a much more pleasant day than yesterday.”

“All right,” Crowley says, and trails behind him with the fruit.

They settle in the shade, and Aziraphale sets down the food and offers Crowley a plate.

“Cheese?” he asks, already portioning out his own meal.

“Thanks,” says Crowley, and then, “Apple?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” says Aziraphale, and he takes the fruit from Crowley’s hands.

Crowley stares at him for a moment, watching as he slices up the fruit to divide it between them.

“Er,” she says, and Aziraphale raises a brow, popping a piece of apple into his mouth.

“I take it,” he says after a moment, “that that was meant to be facetious?” and Crowley flushes.

“A bit, yeah,” she admits, looking at the apple slices on the angel’s plate.

Aziraphale laughs.

“Of course it was,” he says, “What else could I expect from you, my dear?”

His laugh is nice, Crowley thinks. She hasn’t had the chance to hear it all too often; usually when they meet it is in public, or while working, and not…not at all like this. She thinks she’d like to hear it more, though. When Aziraphale laughs, even when it’s at her, the world feels kinder somehow—more at peace.

Instead of speaking, Crowley eats her food.

Aziraphale isn’t a bad cook when it comes to simple things like these. His seasoning is perfect in a way that can only be achieved through long practice or by a miracle, though she isn’t quite sure which this is. And the cheese he’s purchased is high quality.

They eat in silence for a while, and Aziraphale takes a pear from the basket to share it between them. The fruit is sweet on their lips, and the cheese is rich, and the bottle of wine they drink from is cool and fresh. 

The sun rises in the sky, and the shadows shift across the yard. The breeze has enough of a reach to brush their skin with gentle kisses. 

Time passes slowly, and they don’t quite notice it go. It is only when their shade disappears into sun that Aziraphale stands and offers Crowley a hand. She takes it.

“Any plans for the day,” she asks, and Aziraphale sighs.

“Nothing important,” he says, stacking their dishes in his arms, as Crowley carries the fruit. They make their way back to the kitchen and clean up, and Aziraphale tells her where the platters go as Crowley pokes her way around the angel’s shelves.

“D’you want to go to the amphitheatre again?” Crowley asks when the final dish is put away, and Aziraphale’s head jerks up. His face is the picture of surprised delight.

“Oh,” he says, “Would you really like to?”

“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise, would I?”

Crowley crosses her arms over her chest, and Aziraphale puts a hand on hers. 

“No need to get defensive, dear,” the angel says, “I would love to spend the day with you. In any case, it’s either that, or badgering poor Darieos again for his more of his writings, and I can do that any day.”

“Hmph,” Crowley says, “no good deeds to spread today? No artists or philosophers to strike with inspiration?”

Aziraphale smiles.

“Not today,” he says, “Today I shall be no-one’s muse but my own.”

_And mine_, Crowley thinks before she can help it, and swallows down the thought.

“Cool,” she says instead, “Right, let’s go, then. You can tell me all about the playwrights if you want.”

Aziraphale smiles again and pats her hand. 

“Let’s,” he says, and offers her his arm as they step out into the summer sun. Crowley tucks her arm through his. 

They make their way together through the city, and enjoy the moment of companionship. 

It doesn’t change anything, really, this time they spend together; they still perform their duties; they still follow the rules. But something slowly shifts as time goes by with meals and plays and debates followed by bottles of wine throughout long evenings. Time is moving around them, and inch by inch they begin to change with it.


End file.
